


Fell Into Your Eyes

by poetzproblem



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Guns, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Robbery, Tragedy, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:19:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2271180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetzproblem/pseuds/poetzproblem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This wasn't where she wanted to be. The dim lighting, peeling paint, and smoke-filled air were a far cry from the bright lights of Broadway, but she needed the money if she ever wanted a chance at getting out of this rundown, dirty town. The intrepid, young ingénue that she'd once been had died a slow, sad death at the end of a rope made of broken dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fell Into Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skywarrior108](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skywarrior108/gifts).



> **Author's Note:** Written as a birthday gift for the amazing Skywarrior108, Queen of Angst. She wanted her heart ripped out. You have been warned.
> 
> Thanks to Angelffxmaniac and Xactodreams for the feedback. You guys are great.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Glee_ or the characters, I just like to play with them…strictly non-profit.
> 
>  **Warnings:** In case you missed it - Heavy angst and tragedy. Based on the video for _Addicted To You_ by Avicii.

_Guess I should have seen it coming; caught me by surprise._  
 _I wasn't looking where I was going; I fell into your eyes._  
 _~Addicted To You, Avicii_

* * *

_Somewhere in another time..._

This wasn't where she wanted to be. The dim lighting, peeling paint, and smoke-filled air were a far cry from the bright lights of Broadway, but she needed the money if she ever wanted a chance at getting out of this rundown, dirty town. The intrepid, young ingénue that she'd once been had died a slow, sad death at the end of a rope made of broken dreams. The saddest part was that she'd tied the knot on the noose with her very own hands.

Once upon a time, Rachel Berry had been a dreamer—her head filled with plans and her heart filled with hope. But like all tragic heroines, she'd been waylaid by a roguish smile and pretty words full of empty promises. She'd put her faith in a man instead of in herself, letting him talk her out of her dreams and into his bed, only to be left high and dry and working in some dive bar and grill in Lima when he drank himself into an early grave.

She was better than him. And she was better than  _this_. But she was still stuck until her poor bank account somehow started to multiply. Once that happened, she'd be on the first train out of here and on her way to New York. It would happen. Someday.

"Get that cute ass of yours moving, Jew babe. I ain't paying you to stand around and look pretty."

Rachel jerked out of her revelry at the words and the sting of an unwelcome palm to her ass while she loosely held a rag over the chipped and stained bar top. She she sent a scowl in the direction of Noah "Puck" Puckerman, the owner of this fine establishment. "That's exactly what you're paying me for," she reminded him testily. "You're constantly encouraging the cretins who patronize this bar to ogle me."

"Yeah, so?" he challenged with a frown, crossing his muscled arms. "Only reason I hired you was outta respect to my pal, Hudson. You don't like the way I run the place, you can quit. I got ten other prettier girls who'd take this job without any lip. Now get over there and wait on that table," he ordered, pointing to the attractive couple who'd actually chosen to sit down and look at the paltry menu rather than sit at the bar.

Rachel sighed and dropped her rag, picking up her tablet and a pen before walking to the table. "What can I get you two?" she asked with forced pleasantness.

The blond fellow glanced up with a grin, eyes raking over her body. "Your name and number would be good," he joked. Rachel gritted her teeth and pushed the tip of her pen into the tablet a little more firmly, imagining that she could push it through the guy's head instead. Her eyes cut over to the woman with him, expecting to see a jealous glare aimed in her direction, but the woman just shook her head as she continued to look over the menu.

"That's no way to treat a lady, Sam," she chastised, and Rachel felt an instant kinship with the beautiful blonde.

"She knows I'm just joking," Sam defended, looking up at Rachel again. "Don't you, babe?"

Rachel sighed. "Do you know what you want to order?" she pressed again, sick and tired of the guys that came in here and expected her to smile and thank them for hitting on her like she was some kind of object for their personal amusement and not a living, breathing woman with needs and desires of her own. And this one even had a girlfriend!

"Oh, um…I'll have the Roadkill Burger and a side of fries," Sam finally decided. "Oh, and a beer."

"Tap or bottle?"

"Tap's fine."

It wasn't really—about fifty-percent water—but Rachel wasn't going to tell him that.

"And for you?" she asked Sam's companion.

"What do you recommend?" she asked, finally looking up at Rachel.

Rachel's breath caught for just a second at the full impact of the woman's beauty. She'd almost compare it to looking directly at the sun—except she was falling into a pair of expressive eyes that seemed deeper and more mysterious than the ocean. Moistening her lips, Rachel inhaled deeply, ignoring the rancid scent of smoke that constantly surrounded her, and quickly composed herself. "Eating somewhere else," she told the woman honestly.

Sam shook his head, cupping a hand over the woman's arm. "Just get a burger, Q."

The woman seemed to ignore him, still gazing at Rachel with questioning eyes. "It's probably your safest choice," Rachel acknowledged. "The owner has a deal with the local butcher shop, so at least the meat is fresh. And he actually knows how to cook it."

The woman nodded slowly before gingerly placing her stained paper menu back between the salt and pepper shakers on the table. "I'll have that. Well-done. No fries."

"Anything to drink?"

"Water."

Rachel's pen hesitated over her tablet. "It's tap," she warned.

"That's fine," the woman assured her with a smile, and Rachel caught her breath again at the way it transformed her face.

She nodded and finished writing their order, but she hesitated before she turned to go, giving into her curiosity. "I haven't seen you around here before. Are you new in town?"

"No," Sam answered.

"Yes," the woman said at the same time.

She sent him a withering glare. "My…cousin went to school nearby for a few years," she explained. "But we're just passing through."

"Yeah," he agreed.

Nodding again, Rachel let the subject drop and gave their order to Puck before she ducked behind the bar to get their drinks, delivering them to the table in a timely fashion. The place was pretty dead, so Rachel returned to her futile job of tidying up the bar while she surreptitiously checked out the strangers every few minutes. They were talking with their heads close together, and the woman didn't appear to be happy. She wondered if they were really cousins. They certainly did look alike, but then people mistook her and Puck for siblings all the time, and they certainly weren't related. She wasn't entirely certain they were even the same species at times.

"Order up," Puck called out, ducking his head out of the kitchen and pulling Rachel's attention back to her job.

Rachel picked up the burgers and took them to the table, setting them down with a polite, "Can I get you anything else?"

"This is fine, thanks," the woman replied, offering Rachel an oddly shy smile before those eyes dropped back to her plate.

"Well, if you need anything, just give me shout."

"Oh, we sure will," Sam promised with a lascivious grin before he jerked forward with a hiss and a muttered. "Ow. Damn it, Quinn."

Rachel stifled her own grin as she left them to eat in peace, silently running the name over in her mind and thinking it was an odd one for a woman but somehow perfect for the gorgeous blonde. She checked on them once more after that, but they only asked for the check, and after Rachel set it down, Sam tossed some money down on the table, calling out a, "Thanks, honey," before Quinn dragged him out the door.

Rachel sighed, making her way to the now empty, dirty table, resigned that the first tiny bit of excitement that the strangers had brought into the bar in the last month was already over. Before she set about cleaning the table, she gathered up the money and took it to the register, officially ringing the bill up. She counted the money once, twice, three times before she released a quiet gasp at the extra hundred dollars that she'd counted every single time. Her eyes quickly darted to Puck, who was once again helping himself to a drink at the other end of the bar, and as discreetly as she could, Rachel attempted to slip the hundred dollar tip into her apron.

She didn't quite manage to do it before Puck was somehow right there with a rough hand around her wrist. "Nuh uh, Berry. We split the tips," he reminded her gruffly, snatching the money out of her hands. Rachel clenched her jaw and dug her nails into her palms to keep from saying anything while Puck counted the money and whistled in appreciation. "Damn, girl. What'd you do? Blow the guy under the table when I wasn't looking?"

"You're a pig," she spat.

Puck shrugged and pocketed the money. "Oink, oink, babe," he grunted as he reached around Rachel to the cash register and pulled out a five dollar bill. "Here's your cut."

"Five percent?" she questioned in outrage.

"I can cut it down to one if you bitch about it," he warned, moving to put the money back in the register, but Rachel snatched it out of his hand and shoved it in her pocket. "That's my girl."

"I'm not your girl," she growled, grabbing a rag from beneath the bar and stalking back to the table to clean it. At this rate, she'd never earn enough money to get the hell of here.

Three hours later, Rachel trudged home to her empty apartment. It was small, the pipes rattled, and the heat never worked, but it was as clean as she could make it, and the landlord never tried to take advantage of her. She kicked off her shoes and turned on her little black and white television to keep her thoughts from chasing one another in circles in the quiet of the apartment. Exhausted, she collapsed onto the chair, rubbing at her aching feet while a static-filled newscaster droned on and on about depressing things, like how the Pierce's barn had burned down, and that poor Hummel boy was beaten and left for dead, and the bank in nearby Belleville got robbed by a masked gunman. The world really was a terrible place, and Rachel was so tired. So very tired of it all, she thought, before she dozed off on the chair.

_xx_

The next day was the same as the one before—the same as the day before that and last week and last month and the last five years. Rachel was still scrubbing at the same spot on the bar that she'd been trying to get clean since she'd started working at this dump, and she was still getting her ass slapped by Noah Puckerman whenever he walked past. Some days she just wanted to strangle him, get into her shitty, hand-me-down pickup truck, and drive until the world fell away.

"Can I get a whiskey?" asked a smoky voice from Rachel's left, and her head turned to find the blonde from yesterday—Quinn—sitting at the bar. She was wearing a beige coat over a simple black shirt with a red scarf tied around her neck, and she looked every bit as beautiful today.

"Coming right up, babe," Puck answered as he slid over in front of Quinn, bumping Rachel completely out of the way.

"I wasn't talking to you, and I'm not your babe," Quinn replied testily.

"I'm the owner of this fine establishment and keeper of the bar," he explained. "Berry here just waits the tables."

"Then just pour me the drink and go away," Quinn demanded, turning her gaze away from him.

Puck grunted in irritation but did what he was told, slamming the glass down in front of Quinn and pouring the whiskey. Rachel giggled lightly as he stalked away, watching from the corner of her eye as Quinn inspected the glass warily before she finally took a sip of her whiskey.

"So, your name is Berry?" Quinn asked, pulling Rachel's eyes to hers in surprise.

"Rachel, actually," she corrected with a frown. "Rachel Berry."

A crooked smile pulled at Quinn's lips. "I'm Quinn."

"I know. I heard your…cousin call you that yesterday." Quinn's smile grew just the tiniest bit at the revelation, and Rachel asked, "Will he be joining you today?"

Quinn's smile dropped away, and her eyes grew harder. "No." One of her tawny eyebrows arched in challenge. "Disappointed?"

Taken aback by the frost coating the single-worded question, Rachel silently shook her head. Quinn scrutinized her for a moment before she nodded once and took another sip of her whiskey. Rachel wasn't quite sure what to make of the woman, but she'd be remiss if she failed to ask, "Can I get you a menu?"

Quinn chuckled, her mouth twisting back into a smile. "No, thanks. I wasn't all that impressed with the food yesterday. Thought I'd see if the booze is any better."

Rachel nodded in understanding, but, "It's really not." She lowered her voice and leaned forward so that only Quinn could hear her. "Puck waters down everything to make it last longer, but since you're an extremely attractive woman, he poured you the real whiskey."

"So do you get the real whiskey too?" Quinn asked with a teasing grin.

"I don't even get to keep my tips," Rachel answered flatly.

Quinn's smile disappeared again. "Then why are you working here?"

Rachel bit into her lip and glanced away from those compelling eyes, softly admitting, "I have nowhere else to go."

A tremulous breath filled the air between them before Quinn quietly confessed, "I know the feeling."

Rachel turned her head and fell back into Quinn's eyes, overwhelmed by the sense that her words were more than a hollow expression of empathy. She offered a sympathetic smile that was instantly returned, and that was their beginning.

_xx_

Quinn showed up again the next night and ordered a whiskey before ordering Puck away. She took a slow, deliberate drink, and then she asked Rachel how long she'd been working at the bar, silently listening to Rachel spill her whole, sad story without judgment.

"If you want out of this shithole, you need to make it happen," Quinn told her with an arched eyebrow.

Rachel shook her head sadly. "I'm trying. I save as much as I can, but I never seem to get ahead."

"Maybe you should consider an alternate form of income," Quinn suggested carefully.

"I really don't want to work at the local strip club."

Quinn's hand tightened around her glass, and her jaw clenched. "Good. Don't," she agreed curtly. "I didn't mean that anyway."

"Well, what did you mean?" Rachel questioned, leaning against the bar. "I don't know if you've noticed, Quinn, but there really aren't that many employment opportunities around here. I'm lucky to even have  _this_ job."

Quinn glanced around the bar disdainfully. "You call this lucky?"

"No," Rachel admitted. "But it's the best that I can do right now."

Quinn leveled that hazel gaze on her. "You're better than this place, Rachel Berry."

The words washed over Rachel like a fresh, summer rain, making her feel clean and new for the first time in years, and a long forgotten breath of hope filled her lungs.

_xx_

On the third night, Quinn showed up late in the evening, faithful to her whiskey and her abhorrence to Puck.

"What time does your shift end?" she asked Rachel.

"In two hours," Rachel answered after glancing at the clock.

Quinn nodded and finished her whiskey slowly. Then she finished another while she listened to Rachel tell her about her dreams, giving them voice after years in silence—New York and Broadway and becoming a star. Each one grew more distant everyday under the cloud of secondhand smoke and spilled booze.

When Rachel's shift ended, Quinn was waiting for her outside the door with a cigarette between her fingers. "You got a ride?" Quinn asked before bringing the cigarette to her lips.

Rachel nodded at the old, beat-up truck parked at the end of the lot—the one useful thing that Finn had left her.

"Good. Take me home," Quinn demanded, puffing out a stream of smoke into the chilly night air.

"O-okay," Rachel agreed as she walked toward the truck with Quinn dropping her cigarette on the pavement and falling into step beside her.

Inside the truck, the scent of tobacco and Quinn's perfume filled the cab while Rachel slid the key into the ignition. The cold engine hesitated, grinding a little before it finally turned over, and Rachel shifted into reverse, backing away from the building.

"Where am I taking you?" she asked Quinn.

Quinn glanced over at her in the darkness of the truck with her face barely illuminated by the dim streetlight, but it was enough for Rachel to see the smirk on her lips when she answered, "Your place."

Rachel's foot jerked on the accelerator and the truck swerved slightly. "My place?" Rachel repeated as she fastened her eyes to the road in front of her. Her heart raced with a strange anticipation that she couldn't put into words. She knew that she should say  _no_ —take Quinn back to wherever it was that she was staying—but she also knew that she wouldn't do that. There was just something about Quinn that made her want to be in the woman's company for as long as she could be. Maybe it was the mystery of her, or maybe it was finally being around someone who actually believed that Rachel was better than Puck's bar and Lima, Ohio. Or maybe it was just the combination of everything in  _Quinn_.

The ride home was short, and Rachel parked the truck in front of her run-down building, killing the engine before she looked at Quinn again with an apologetic shrug. "Here we are."

"Here we are," Quinn agreed—that smirk still in place—as she opened her door and slid out of the truck. Rachel took a breath and followed her.

Quinn was silent as Rachel led her inside. She shrugged off her coat when they entered the apartment, revealing a form-fitting, blue dress beneath. Rachel's gaze trailed over her body, appreciating her form, before she remembered that she shouldn't be looking at that. When she lifted her eyes, she found Quinn's gaze was on her in the same way.

"What do you have to drink?" Quinn asked as she turned away, pacing into the small apartment and glancing around with a cool interest.

"Oh...ah...I think I might have some wine." Though Rachel didn't know if it was still any good. "And some scotch," she added, remembering the bottle that Puck had reluctantly parted with in lieu of a Christmas bonus.

"I'll take a glass of scotch. On the rocks."

Rachel nodded and walked into her kitchen where she dug the bottle out of the cabinet. She pulled down two glasses, pouring them both a drink before she returned to her living room to find Quinn reclined on her shabby sofa with her boots kicked off and flipping through the cheesy romance novel that Rachel had been reading. She offered Quinn one of the glasses and gingerly sat on the other end of the sofa, watching as Quinn took a drink.

"So this is home?" Quinn asked.

"Yeah," Rachel sighed. "For now. I know it's not much."

"It's got a roof and bed, which is more than I have at the moment," Quinn pointed out with a shrug.

Rachel frowned. "Oh. You...you did say that you and your cousin were just passing through." Quinn never did say where Sam had been these past few days.

Quinn's expression grew a little more closed off. "Yeah. He's already gone. Headed west. I've been staying at the motel near the bar, but I'll have to move on soon."

"Oh," Rachel repeated, staring down into her glass in disappointment. She was really going to miss Quinn when she left.

"You should move on too," Quinn told her.

Rachel nodded slowly. "Someday. Soon," she added hopefully.

Quinn rolled her eyes, sitting forward. "Just do it, Rachel. Quit your shitty job and go. And don't tell me you stay for the money because that place barely even makes any business. That Puck guy can't be paying you that much."

"He makes most of his business in the back room," Rachel revealed, and Quinn's brows furrowed in confusion. "He's a bookie. He mostly pays me to look pretty, keep up appearances with the local cops, and keep my mouth shut," she explained.

Quinn shook her head. "You need to get out of there," she repeated. "Go to New York like you want and sing." Quinn studied her thoughtfully, her expression softening. "Sing for me now."

Taken aback by the sudden request, Rachel blushed. "There's no music."

Quinn's lips quirked into a teasing grin. "So? You want to be on Broadway. You shouldn't need any music," she challenged. "Let me hear you sing. Please?"

It was the please at the end that swayed Rachel, and she set her glass of scotch aside, clearing her throat. It had been a long time since she'd done this for an audience—even of one—and her stomach erupted in nervous butterflies at the intense look in Quinn's eyes. But she opened her mouth and let the first song that popped into her head fall from her lips, shaky at first and raspier than she'd like, but growing stronger over every note _._

" _You're just too good to be true._  
Can't take my eyes off of you.  
You'd be like heaven to touch.  
I wanna hold you so much."

As she sang, Quinn moved closer on the sofa, her sparkling gaze glued to Rachel in rapt fascination, despite the scratchiness that persisted in Rachel's voice.  
  
"At long last love has arrived,  
And I thank God I'm alive.  
You're just too good to be true.  
Can't take my eyes off of you."

Rachel let her voice trail away, caught in the pull of Quinn's eyes and surrounded by the scent of her perfume.

"You're really good," Quinn murmured, moving even closer.

"Th-thank you," Rachel stuttered as Quinn reached out to trail her fingers over Rachel's cheek—the intimacy of the action making Rachel tremble inside.

"You  _are_  heaven to touch," Quinn breathed out, close to Rachel's lips. "I wanna hold you so much."

"Oh," Rachel gasped in surprise just before Quinn's lips touched hers for the first time.

But certainly not the last.

_xx_

"You could stay with me for a while...if you want," Rachel offered into the darkness. Quinn's head was on the pillow next to hers as they faced one another—the heat from their bodies beneath the blankets enough to keep them from noticing the chill in the apartment.

Rachel couldn't tear her gaze away from Quinn's eyes or her fingers away from Quinn's naked body. She'd known, of course, that there were women like Quinn in the world—women who enjoyed the touch of other women—but she'd never thought that  _she_ would enjoy it so much herself. But, oh, she  _had_. Quinn was like a drug, shot straight into her blood with a single kiss, and now she needed more.

Quinn smiled at her as her own hands wandered Rachel's body. "Maybe for a day or two."

Rachel frowned—it wouldn't be long enough—but she stayed silent and vowed to make every moment count. Shifting closer, she wrapped her arm around Quinn's back and kissed her deeply, memorizing the taste of her and the way her own body reacted to it.

Her fingers caught on a patch of flesh that she hadn't noticed in their first, frenzied and clumsy coupling—raised and rough compared to the rest of Quinn's smooth skin—and she pulled back from the kiss as she circled her fingers over the spot. "What's this?" she asked in concern.

Quinn's jaw tensed, and she dragged Rachel's hand away. "Nothing you need to worry about. Just old scars," she insisted before she rolled forward, pushing Rachel to her back and pinning her hands to the mattress.

Rachel didn't ask her about it again.

_xx_

Quinn didn't come back to the bar the next night, but it didn't matter. She was waiting for Rachel in her apartment when she got home with a glass of scotch in her hand and a smile on her lips. They talked—and then they let their bodies speak for them instead. Quinn's touch made Rachel forget about her shitty apartment, and Puck's lewd comments, and the leers of the men who came into the bar. Quinn's touch almost made her forget that she could want anything more than this.

"Sam isn't my cousin," Quinn admitted some time later as she lay tangled up with Rachel in her tiny bed.

"Oh?" Rachel breathed as a knot of unpleasantness twisted in her belly. Her hand tightened possessively around Quinn's hip.

Quinn chuckled. "He isn't  _that_ either," she assured Rachel. "He was just a guy that helped me out of a really bad situation," she admitted quietly.

Rachel thought of the scars on Quinn's back that she wouldn't speak about. "Then I'm grateful to him."

"I wanna help you," Quinn told her, shifting their positions until they were facing one another.

"You already have," Rachel admitted with a shy grin as she stroked Quinn's hip.

Quinn shook her head against the pillow. "You don't belong here, Rachel."

Rachel smiled sadly. "I know. But...I haven't given up hope."

"Hope is just a four letter word," Quinn spat with a sudden scowl. "It tricks you into believing things will get better, but they don't. Not unless you make it happen."

"I'm working on it," Rachel reminded her.

"You're stuck," Quinn argued. "And you're scared."

"I'm not scared!" Rachel countered heatedly.

"Then tell Puckerman to go fuck himself and get the hell out of this town," Quinn urged desperately. "Don't stay stuck here forever."

"That takes money, Quinn. More than I have." Even to her own ears, it sounded like an excuse—a way to save herself from the disappointment of failing in New York just like she'd failed at getting out of Lima and by ever believing that Finn Hudson would take her away from this place.

Quinn's hand flexed against her, and a calculating expression came over her face. "Money is easy. I can get that for you."

Rachel chuckled, because as reticent as Quinn had been in sharing the details of her past, she'd said enough for Rachel to know that she wasn't much better off financially that Rachel was right now. "How? By robbing a bank?" she joked.

Quinn's eyes grew shuttered, and she shrugged. "Why not?" she asked seriously.

It took a moment for Rachel to realize that Quinn wasn't joking. "Quinn?"

"It's how Sam and I got out of Belleville," she revealed.

Rachel reared back. "You...you robbed a bank!" she squeaked.

"He robbed it. I drove the car. We both needed a fresh start," Quinn explained flatly. "Don't look so scandalized, Rach. That money is insured. It's not like we stole from people like us. It's just redistributing the wealth a little," Quinn reasoned. "Just enough to get far, far away from here and every other shitty small town in this backwater state."

"You're serious," Rachel realized with a frown.

Quinn pulled her closer, pressing a thigh between Rachel's legs. "We could start small. Take what Puckerman owes you," she tempted.

"You want me to rob the bar?" Rachel asked in shock.

"I want you stand up and take what you deserve, Rachel Berry," Quinn corrected, pressing that thigh even higher until Rachel whimpered helplessly. "We can get away from this place. Go to New York together," she urged in a husky purr before she leaned in and nipped Rachel's lips.

"I...I couldn't," Rachel refused weakly, even as her body said yes to everything that Quinn was doing to it.

All the while, a little voice whispered in her ear, reminding her of all the money that Puck had cheated her out of over the years—how much he made under the table that he never shared—and she wondered if it could really be considered stealing if you were just stealing back what was rightfully yours.

_xx_

The giggles and grunts from the backroom grated on Rachel's nerves and made her feel sick to her stomach. She was "restocking" the liquor according to Puck's instructions and trying not to think about what she knew was happening back there. Every Sunday, like clockwork, when Will Schuester thought his wife was in church, the woman would be in the backroom of the bar, getting her thrills.

And like clockwork, the door jerked open and the woman stumbled out, fixing her hair and straightening her dress as she hurried out of the bar. Puck sauntered out with his shirt hanging open, still refastening his belt. Rachel stared at him in disgust, but he only smirked at her. "You can take a ride anytime you want," he offered suggestively.

Rachel shook her head. "You're disgusting."

Puck scoffed, giving her a disdainful once over. "I'll never get what Hudson saw in you."

Rachel dug her nails into the countertop. As much as she'd come to regret her relationship with Finn, in the early days, she'd felt lucky to have him choose her. "He liked to hear me sing," she answered quietly, remembering how they'd met—how he'd told her that she sang real good and that she should be on stage.

Puck snickered. "In the sack, maybe," he chided, leaning against the bar. "He'd come in here and laugh about your big, Broadway dreams, you know?" he asked casually. "Said he was doing you a favor, keeping you here. So you wouldn't get rejected."

Rachel's mouth went dry, and her eyes snapped to Puck. "You're lying," she accused.

"No, I ain't," Puck fired back with a hard expression. "Look, maybe you had a nice voice back in school and all, but nobody's gonna wanna to pay to see you on a stage," he told her, pushing away from the bar and getting into her space. "You're just a barmaid, babe, and you ain't never getting out of this town, no matter what that stuck-up, blonde bitch whispered in your ears. Sooner you accept that, the happier you'll be," he told her gruffly, practically pinning her to the bar.

Rachel trembled in his shadow as she attempted to hold back her tears. Puck chuckled cruelly before he unexpectedly shoved a hand down into her pocket. "Stop," Rachel cried out in shock, clawing at his wrist.

Puck jerked his hand away, coming up with the little stash of bills that she'd pocketed from the couple of Sunday morning drinkers that stumbled in for a head start on the day. "And stop trying to hide your tips from me," he barked at her, waving the money under her nose. "You know I always get my cut." He roughly slapped the side of her ass before he pocketed the money and walked back into the backroom, leaving Rachel in tears.

She turned around, leaning heavily against the bar as she struggled to regain her composure. Her eyes fell to the gun that Puck kept stashed under the register for protection, and she stared at it for a long time, imagining what it would feel like in her hands. And she thought about what Quinn had said.

_xx_

When Rachel went home, she dropped her coat in the entryway and walked straight to Quinn. The blonde looked so perfect sitting sideways on Rachel's sofa, wearing a simple t-shirt and underwear while she read Jane Austen. Quinn looked up with a smile that quickly faded when she saw Rachel's face.

"Baby, what's wrong?" she asked, tossing her book aside.

Rachel shook her head and slid onto Quinn's lap, kissing her desperately. Quinn's fingers slipped beneath Rachel's shirt and pressed into her skin.

"Tell me I'm better than this," Rachel begged between kisses. "Tell me I don't belong here."

Quinn pulled back with gleaming eyes. "You're better than all of it, baby. You're gonna be a star," she promised, dragging Rachel's mouth back to hers before she made Rachel forget everything but her.

In the cold, blackness of the morning, tangled up with Quinn and tracing the marks on her body, Rachel made her decision. "Let's do it," she whispered into Quinn's skin. "Let's get out of this town."

Quinn held her tighter and smiled.

_xx_

This wasn't where she wanted to be. Her fingers were tight on the rag as she scrubbed at the bar, and her stomach was tense and tangled in knots. Maybe she should just leave—toss down the rag and walk out right now. It was early, and there was no one here but her and Puck and creepy Mr. Ryerson who drank alone at the end of the bar every Monday. It wasn't too late.

But then it was—because Quinn walked in wearing her coat and her scarf, and she smiled knowingly at Rachel before heading straight for Puck. He flashed her a wolfish grin and leered at her like he always did until Quinn gracefully slid her hand into her pocket and pulled out a handgun, pointing it straight at Puck's head.

"What the fuck?" he growled as he jerked back in surprise.

"I'm taking your money, Puckerman. And then I'm taking Rachel out of here." At the end of the bar, Mr. Ryerson only ducked down next to the wall with his brandy clutched between his hands.

Puck smirked. "The hell you are." Rachel watched him reach for that spot under the bar, but she knew his gun wasn't there anymore. And Quinn knew it too, smirking back at him as she fired her gun at the shelf behind his head, shattering a bottle of whiskey. Puck jumped away, putting up his hands when he realized that Quinn wasn't bluffing.

"Holy fuck!" he shouted.

"Open the register, baby," she told Rachel.

"Baby?" Puck sneered at Rachel with a murderous expression. "You in on this?"

Rachel only hesitated for a moment before she reached into her apron and awkwardly pulled out the gun that she'd pilfered earlier, shakily pointing it in Puck's direction. "You...you owe me, Puck," she told him as the certainty of her decision settled like a stone in her stomach. Years of crude suggestions and pinched asses, felt up boobs and stolen tips came back in a flash of anger, strengthening her resolve.

He took a menacing step forward, and Rachel fell back, but Quinn was right there next her, aiming her gun at Puck's head once again with a growl. "Get the money, Rach," she ordered, and Rachel complied, opening the register and cleaning it out. Puck never did bother to count it down after a weekend.

"I'm gonna call the cops on you bitches," Puck yelled. "You ain't gonna get far."

"Go ahead and call," Quinn challenged. "You can explain that illegal gambling business you've got going in the back room."

The color drained from Puck's face as he glared at Rachel. "You tell her that, Berry?"

"That and all about you sticking your dick in the police chief's wife," Quinn smugly answered for her.

"Fuck!"

"We're just taking her cut," Quinn told him angrily while Rachel finished stuffing the money into her pockets. "We can all walk away from this without any trouble."

"Fuck you," Puck shouted again.

Quinn grabbed Rachel's hand, backing toward the door with her gun still aimed at Puck. "Come on, Rach. Let's get out of here," she urged.

Heart racing, Rachel ran for her truck. It's engine was already running from when Quinn had driven it there, and Quinn was hot on her heels, pushing Rachel towards the passenger door while she ran for the driver's side. She slammed the gas pedal as soon as she was inside, causing the doors to slam shut as the truck squealed out of the parking lot.

Rachel held onto the door handle for dear life, looking back behind them every few seconds and waiting for the police sirens to find them. In the truck bed, most of her possessions were stuffed haphazardly into bags, sliding and bouncing along with Quinn's small suitcase in an erratic rhythm with the potholes along the road.

"Oh my God!" Rachel muttered, pressing a hand to her heart.

Next to her, Quinn laughed wickedly. "We're on our way, baby."

"Oh my God!" Rachel repeated, staring at Quinn. She felt like she was about to pass out—or throw up—or both at once. They'd robbed Puck! She was a criminal! A homeless, jobless criminal. She could never go back to Lima again! "That was...we," she stammered, silently repeating that she would never go back to Lima again. "Pull the truck over," Rachel demanded as her body went haywire with the after effects of adrenaline.

Quinn glanced at her with a frown. "What? No way."

"Pull over right now," Rachel gritted out determinedly.

"Fine," Quinn snapped, taking a sharp turn off the side road that she'd been racing down and into the adjacent field, sliding to a stop behind a small group of trees. She jammed the truck into park and cut the engine before she turned to Rachel with an annoyed, "What?"

Rachel had no words—she could only throw herself across the seat and grab Quinn by her cheeks, dragging her into a sloppy, passionate kiss full of anger and fear and excitement and every other wild, twisted emotion that had come with the rush of robbing Puck. It was unlike anything that she'd ever experienced. Quinn kissed her back with equal fervor, pulling Rachel onto her lap and roughly shoving greedy fingers between their bodies until she made Rachel scream.

When it was over and she could breathe again, Rachel panted out, "That was...such a rush."

"Yeah," Quinn agreed on a breathless chuckle. "But we should probably put a little more distance between us and Lima. Just in case."

Rachel nodded before she slid off of Quinn's lap, and Quinn restarted the truck, pulling back onto the road. Rachel cracked the window just enough to drag in deep lungfuls of the cold air outside, willing her heart-rate to slow again. With that came a fresh wave of guilt and regret and fear, but she did her best let it go, breathing it out into the winter air. What she breathed in felt strangely like freedom.

_xx_

The plan had been New York. They'd holed up in a little motor inn outside of Prospect for a day, half-expecting the cops to find them and feeling invincible when they didn't. There wasn't even a blurb about the robbery on any of the news channels. They'd only gotten four hundred and fifty from the register, which was nothing at all in grand scheme of things, and with Rachel's meager savings that she'd emptied the morning before they'd robbed the bar and the little bit that Sam had left for Quinn, they only had about eleven hundred to their names. It wasn't enough to take both of them all the way to New York City for a fresh start, and they knew it.

"Money is easy," Quinn promised her again, wearing that same expression that had tempted Rachel down this path before she tempted Rachel into their bed and reminded her what freedom could feel like. So they set out for New York, one little town at a time, with no plan but to drive and figure it out along the way. Rachel's old dreams grew hazier the longer she spent in Quinn's company, but the nights in her bed were a vivid and dangerous drug, and being on the road with her was so much better than being stuck in Lima.

The money ran out somewhere east of Harrisburg in a dingy little town with run down buildings and drunks decorating every street corner. At four o'clock on a Wednesday morning, the local bar was empty and just about to close.

It didn't take much for Quinn to convince her.

"All these places are the same, Rach. Shady profiteers getting rich off no-good drunks," Quinn persuaded with a twist to her lips. "Just like Puckerman."

"Just like Puck," Rachel repeated with a frown.

She pulled her knit hat low on her head and closed her hand around the cold metal of the gun as she followed Quinn inside. It didn't feel like it had the first time. The gun was somehow lighter in her hand, and it didn't shake when she held it. The way her heart raced felt less like fear and more like excitement—like standing on a stage and commanding an audience—and with Quinn at her side, barking out commands and flashing Rachel that wicked smile, she felt more alive than she'd ever felt before.

She felt powerful.

She felt free.

They made the bartender open the safe, and then they raced out of the bar and tore out of the parking lot, speeding out of town while Quinn laughed joyously and Rachel sang at the top of her lungs. This time, they heard all about the robbery on the news along with a description of Rachel's truck. They were on the run, even if they never heard the sirens.

"You should go to New York," Quinn told her much later, huddled against her in the tiny motel bed where they'd stopped and fucked each other with wild abandon. The rush of the heist had worn off for the both of them, and Quinn's hands clutched desperately at Rachel's body. "Take the money and catch the train. Go be a star."

Her voice trembled and wavered in the darkness, and Rachel felt her heart lurch. "We're going together."

Quinn laughed bitterly. "Not now. I ruined it," she rasped. "I ruin everything I touch. But you can still have it," she insisted. "I got you out of Lima. No one will come looking for you. I can make sure they won't."

Something in the tone of her voice scared Rachel, and she turned in her lover's arms to see the tears trailing down Quinn's cheeks. "Quinn," she murmured, lifting a hand to brush away the wetness. "I already made my choice."

And it was true. Rachel had gone into this with her eyes wide open—eager for someway to escape the prison that she'd built for herself in Lima. She'd been afraid to break free and chase life, but she wasn't afraid anymore. Quinn made her brave, and more than a little reckless, but Rachel was determined to never wait another table or let another man grope her ass ever again.

Quinn shook her head sadly. "I don't want this for you. I never should have dragged you into this kind of life."

"But I'm in it," Rachel reminded her, pulling her closer. "We're in this together, Quinn. I'm never going to leave you."

"Everyone leaves," Quinn whispered sadly as she buried her face into Rachel's shoulder.

"I won't," Rachel promised her. "I won't."

_xx_

They stole a car—it was so easy for Quinn to lift a set of keys and a wallet from an overeager drunk. They left Rachel's truck on the side of the road and drove south—New York now a distant dream. Their new dream was to be together, somewhere warm like Mexico, and every dive bar in nowhere towns along the way was fair game to fund their great escape.

In Virginia, they stopped along the side of some dirt road in the middle of nowhere. "You need to know how to fire that gun," Quinn told her, pulling her out of the car. They stood in an overgrown field with an empty bottle of whiskey and an empty bottle of scotch set twenty yards away, and Quinn showed Rachel how to fire sure and true, shattering the whisky bottle with the first bullet.

"Where did you learn how to shoot like that?" Rachel asked her in awe.

Quinn stared vacantly out into the field. "My daddy taught me on one of the rare days he wasn't drunk," she said unemotionally before she turned and handed the gun to Rachel. "The next day he drank a bottle of bourbon and beat the hell out of me for touching his gun."

Rachel took the gun in her hand, cradling it close because she couldn't cradle Quinn—stopped cold by the look in her eyes. Quinn stepped behind her, trailing her fingers down Rachel's arm until she could urge her hand up, and with her lips next to Rachel's ear, she told her where to aim and when to breath and just how to pull the trigger in that calm, smooth voice of hers. She let Rachel waste bullet after bullet until she finally shattered the bottle of scotch, and then she let Rachel kiss her in celebration until they were both breathless and high on desire.

They drove southwest on a thousand backroads.

Every bar was new stage, and Rachel reveled in her role, loving the command she had over her captive audiences after so many years of being heckled—years of leaving her dignity at the door and scrubbing her fingers to callouses on chipped plates in greasy water just to take home scraps barely fit for a dog. Now it was nothing but easy money with her finger on a trigger and a woman at her side who made her feel like a star.

Evading the police was a game they were winning. They were onto the next town and the next state in the next stolen car before anyone could give the cops an accurate description of them. Drunk boys in bars could rarely manage to remember more than two hot chicks with guns, and Quinn was a whiz at swapping out license plates. They had a close call in Tennessee and another south of Birmingham, but the Fates were on their side, and they left the sirens in their dust. The radio announcer called them Bonnie and Claudette, and Rachel felt the thrill of it all the way to her toes.

They were somewhere in Texas when Quinn brought up hitting a bank again.

"One big take is all we'd need to make it to Mexico," Quinn promised as she lay wrapped around Rachel's naked body. "The cops can't touch us," she reasoned with a smile in her voice. "We'll be sitting pretty on a beach somewhere. You can sing in some quaint, little cantina, and I'll learn to make coral jewelry and sell it to the tourists. And we'll be happy," she breathed, stroking her fingers back and forth over Rachel's belly.

Rachel's eyes drifted closed as she envisioned the life that Quinn was describing. "Sounds perfect."

_xx_

In the light of day, Rachel wasn't so certain. The bars were easy—dark and rat-infested with guys too drunk to do more than fall off their stools and piss in their pants, and the local sheriffs didn't go out of their way to chase them past their county lines. A bank was a different beast altogether.

"Not as different as you think," Quinn promised. "Sam said the tellers back in Belleville just handed the money over without a fight. It's what they're trained to do. He should have gone for the vault, but we didn't think it through. You and me...we're better. We can do this, Rach. We can be set," she urged.

Rachel worried her lip, thinking it over. The money was insured, so they weren't stealing from anyone but the bank—not that it mattered so much to her anymore, because she'd been stealing from people for weeks and not really caring.

"We have to have a plan," she said slowly. "A detailed one. We have to be prepared if we're going to this."

"We will be," Quinn agreed quickly, kissing her soundly.

They found a bar in the shadier part of town—midday and without intent. No one seemed to look at them twice or make any connections to the stories circulating on the radio broadcasts. For all anyone knew, Bonnie and Claudette were still in Alabama. Rachel sat by and kept her mouth shut as she watched Quinn flirt with the bartender, but they walked out with the name of a guy who was good at forging papers. Two days later, they had new identities for when they hit the border, losing a good chunk of money in the process.

They drove south to the next little town and found the biggest bank in it. Quinn cased the place, going inside to exchange some cash for coins, while Rachel waited inside the car and watched the way the traffic flowed. Then they drove to a motel and made a plan.

"There were only two teller windows," Quinn told her as she made a quick sketch of the bank lobby on a tablet. "A desk across from them with a manager. They've got the big vault in the lobby right beside the tellers, and the main door was open," she revealed with a pleased smile. "There was just a locked gate there. Looked like they had safe deposit boxes in there too, because the manager was letting a customer go in with him when I left."

Rachel nodded as she studied Quinn's sketch. "No security guard?"

Quinn grinned. "Nope. None."

"It's only four blocks to the main road out of town," Rachel told her. "If we park on the side street, it's a straight shot, one-way with one stop sign. The police station is on the other side of town."

They bought a map at the local gas station and took a drive out of town, working out potential escape routes.

They spent half a day in the coffee shop on the adjacent block as they watched the customers come and go, getting cricks in their necks from the bad angle.

And then they spent the night and most of the next day tracing the curves and hollows of one another's bodies over and over again.

Just after sunset, they pulled up to the side of the bank and parked the car—pointing it out of town. Rachel felt a strange sense of calm come over her as she turned to Quinn and gazed into those shimmering eyes that she'd come to think of as home. Confidence flooded into her. No one had been able to touch them yet, and she believed that no one could.

Quinn's eyes traced Rachel's face in quiet reverence before she leaned close and captured Rachel's lips. "For luck," she said.

Rachel grasped her hand, stopping her from getting out of the car, and pulled her back and into another kiss, deep and slow and filled with all of the emotion that she'd left unsaid. Until now.

"I love you," she murmured against Quinn's lips when they parted.

Quinn drew a shaky breath and held Rachel close, trembling slightly in her arms. "You're the best thing in my life," she whispered before she pulled back, brushing at Rachel's hair. "We could keep driving," she hedged, staring into Rachel's eyes. "Find another seedy bar to hit."

Rachel shook her head slowly. "One big take, and we'll be set," she reminded Quinn, kissing her one more time before she opened the door and stepped outside.

The bank closed at six, and it was a quarter to the hour when they walked inside with their guns tucked into the pockets of their coats and assessed the situation—one manager, two tellers, and one customer; two for each of them to cover. The vault was open just like Quinn had said it would be, and there wasn't a security guard in sight. Rachel felt her confidence grow. She glanced at Quinn, and Quinn nodded before she drew her gun and aimed at the manager. Rachel quickly followed with her own gun blazing, yelling for everyone to, "Get on the floor with your hands where I can see them, and nobody will get hurt!"

She jumped up onto the counter with the long dormant grace of the dancer that she could have been had she followed her dreams, and she aimed her gun down at the tellers. They cowered on the floor behind the teller line, and the lone customer laid face down on the floor with his hands spread wide and empty.

Quinn tossed an empty bag at the manager. "Fill it," she ordered. "Don't forget the vault."

Rachel watched in awe as he scrambled to comply, stuffing the bag full of strapped cash from the teller drawers. Her heart was racing and she felt high again as she smiled at Quinn—just for a moment—before returning her attention back to three prone bodies on the floor. "Stay down," she warned them all again as she paced the counter.

Quinn pushed the manager into the gate on the vault. "Open it," she instructed with her gun pressed to his temple, and his shaking hand fished around inside his pocket before it lifted the key to the lock, opening it with a metallic click that echoed through the silent bank. Quinn followed him inside, her eyes darting back and forth between him and the lobby while he stuffed the bag to capacity.

Rachel felt giddy—on top of the world—as she watched their plan come to fruition. She could almost feel the Mexican sun on her face and taste the tequila on her lips. "Hurry up, baby," she urged Quinn, eager to get out of here and be on their way.

Quinn jerked the bag from the manager's hands. "That's enough," she growled. "Get down," she ordered.

"Please...just...just take the money and go," the man begged as he slid to his knees inside the vault.

"We intend to," Quinn assured him, backing out slowly and calling over her shoulder. "Everyone get in there. Now!" she demanded, waving her gun around the room as she turned.

"You heard her," Rachel echoed. "Get moving."

The customer scrambled over on his hands and knees, and the two tellers, shaking and crying, followed after him. Once they were all inside the vault, Quinn pulled the gate closed and took out the key, sending it skittering across the floor with a flick of her wrist before she turned back to Rachel with a triumphant smile. She lifted the bag in her hand like a trophy, and Rachel laughed in delight, thinking that she'd never seen Quinn look so gorgeous or been so in love with someone.

Rachel jumped down from her perch on the counter with her mind focused on getting Quinn into her arms and getting them the hell out of there with their money. The heels of her boots landed on the tiled floor with a deafening crack, and when she caught her balance and looked up again, Quinn's smile was frozen in place. Rachel's smile mirrored it as she took a step forward—until she noticed the patch of crimson that quickly spread in an abstract bloom over the beige material of Quinn's coat.

It was only in that moment that Rachel saw the flash of red and blue dancing around the lobby from the open window across from the vault—a perfect bullet hole marring the clear, smooth glass. The world slowed to a crawl and grew dark around her while she watched Quinn's gun and the money fall to the floor as her beautiful smile slipped away.

"Quinn," Rachel whispered in horror as the woman fell hard to her knees.

"Rach," Quinn choked, tipping to her side and onto the floor—turning the white tiles beneath her red with blood.

Rachel screamed, tripping over her feet and sliding to her knees as she landed in heap beside her lover—her  _love_. Her Quinn.

"No," she cried, cradling Quinn in her lap and desperately pressing her hand over the wound. "No. No! Hold on, baby. You're gonna be okay."

Outside, someone with a bullhorn demanded that they send out the hostages, but Rachel didn't hear. She could only hear the strangled sound of Quinn struggling for every breath as she clutched at Rachel's hand with her own.

Her eyes—those beautiful expressive eyes, as deep and mysterious as the ocean—grew shallow and dull and dim. "Rach," Quinn rasped again.

"Don't leave me, Quinn," Rachel begged through her tears.

Quinn's pale lips quirked, and she weakly lifted her hand to Rachel's cheek. "Ev'ryone...leaves," she managed raggedly.

"No!" Rachel pleaded, shaking her head in violent denial and causing Quinn's hand to slip away and back to the floor.

A cough racked Quinn's body, and she dragged in an anguished breath. "Love...you," she barely whispered as two tears escaped from her eyes and bled down over her pale skin. "Sing me...to sleep," she begged weakly as her eyes drifted closed for the last time.

"No," Rachel whimpered, tears splattering onto Quinn's still face. "I love you. I love you. Please. Please.  _You're just too good to be true,"_ she choked. " _C-can't take m-my eyes off of you. You'd be...like hea...heaven to touch. I wanna hold you so much,_ "she sang brokenly through her tears, cradling Quinn's body closer to her. " _At long last love has arrived,_ " she whispered, " _And I th-thank G-god..."_ Her voice disappeared into a pained sob before she bent over and pressed her lips to Quinn's, crying harder when she felt them already cool.

The noise from outside cut into the sanctity of her grief with its angry sirens and angrier demands for surrender. This wasn't where she wanted to be. They'd had a plan. They were supposed to be in the car on the way to Mexico—to freedom and happiness and Quinn's eyes alive and filled with love—but instead, Rachel's world had fallen to pieces around her.

She closed her eyes, struggling to draw breath into her burning lungs as she rocked back and forth over Quinn's lifeless body. It wasn't supposed to end this way. Quinn had made Rachel brave—made her  _better_. What was she now?

Stuck.

She was stuck.

 _You're better than this place, Rachel Berry_.

_You don't belong here._

_We're on our way, baby._

_And we'll be happy._

"I made my choice," Rachel mumbled to herself as she wiped her tears—sick at the sight of Quinn's blood on her hands. She shifted back, gently laying Quinn's head on the floor and carefully brushing her hair from her beloved face with a shaking hand. Then she reached for her gun, and the weight felt comforting in her hand, making it steady and sure. Quinn's gun was on the floor next to her body, and Rachel curled her fingers around the handle as she stumbled to her feet on weak legs.

"We're in this together," she vowed to Quinn as she stood up straight and took a determined step forward.

Then another.

Rachel closed her eyes, seeing only Quinn as her feet carried her out into the evening, guns raised and recoil stinging her wrists as she squeezed both triggers again and again and again—for  _Quinn_. She heard the ricochet of bullets like drumbeats in her head and the screams around her built into a crescendo, urging her forward. She felt numb to everything but the gaping hole in her heart while the world around her exploded into white.

Then it faded in a flash as she fell smiling into the deepest ocean of hazel.


End file.
